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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26473687">The Purpose of a Zoldyck</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/t0talcha0s/pseuds/t0talcha0s'>t0talcha0s</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hunter X Hunter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Gen, I apologize for the summary as Gon is not in the fic :(, The mythology of the Zoldycks, Typical Zoldyck violence, Zoldyck Lineage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:27:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,741</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26473687</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/t0talcha0s/pseuds/t0talcha0s</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well yeah” Killua said, removing the sucker in his mouth with a little ‘pop’ “The Zoldyck heirs all have white hair.” He said, “Since the first one.” Like it was obvious. </p><p>Gon blinked at him </p><p>“All of them?” He nodded</p><p>“My dad, my grandpa, my great-grandpa, every old man all the way up the Zoldyck line.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Illumi Zoldyck &amp; Killua Zoldyck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Purpose of a Zoldyck</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I love making up fake facts about the hxh universe and togashi can’t stop or disprove me</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There were born four children of the Janonksi line, a simple family, lived atop a hill. Three with hair dark and straight as willow branches and another born with hair of the clouds: white as seafoam, curled at the ends like the leaves of ferns. The birth of this child, the youngest, brought about the demise of their mother. He was born blood-crying with his mother’s body cold beside him. His brothers, his father, resentful of the missing mother called him </p><p>“Zaoldyeck” in the old language “Murderer.” </p><p>“You are,” they’d tell him “by nature, a murderer.” and feed him salads of oleander leaves. The child would not die. </p><p>“You’re a puppet of darkness” they’d tell him, striking him with whips. The child would not die. </p><p>“One who lives in shadow,” they’d tell him, “a portent of death.”  They stabbed him with pins, tied him to trees to be struck in storms, crushed his palms beneath bricks, starved him, tore his fingernails off, left him stranded at the peaks of mountains, shunned him, beat him, spoke to him cruel words, forced him nights without sleep. The child would not die. </p><p>“You were born with one purpose,” his father told him “to die. You,” he said “devoid of passion. There is nothing you desire, nor is there anything you wish for. You are incapable of kindness, of love. The only thing you do is attempt to discern how you may kill. One day you shall fell all that you believe to care for, Zaoldyeck,” he told him “Zaoldyeck.” </p><p>The son, angered, took a rabbit into the barn and slit its throat. Easy, clean. There was no shame to be found in the act, his father’s words truer then he anticipated. The son took the blood of the rabbit, traced it with his fingertips, and slit the throats of his brothers, his father, left the cruel house atop the hill and travelled westwards. </p><p>There was west, he was told, a mountain of legend. A tree stump, the legend said, felled by the g-ds own axe, a throne for the king among g-ds. The son, ferried to its sacred base, proclaimed his wish to conquer it. Took him five weeks to scale the mountain, unkempt, untamed, and set his first brick into its peak. </p><p><em> Zoldyck </em> it said, and so was his new name, and so was the start, the Zoldyck’s first son. </p><p>---</p><p>Maha Zoldyck, the fourth of his own brothers, the first of white hair, flicked a whip-tip brutal onto his son’s chest. His son did not move from his binds. </p><p>“Zeno,” he said “we have hours left in this training son, I believe I saw you flinching.”</p><p>“Never father.” Maha did not smile, struck his son again, and twice, once more to accompany his words.</p><p>“You were born with one purpose, Zeno, to be an assassin, I will not stand for a lackluster heir.” </p><p>---</p><p>Zeno Zoldyck, the second of his own brothers, the first of white hair, took his young son’s hand in between his two. </p><p>“Silva” he said “my only son, you bring me pride in your skill, you are the descendent of legend, this mountain claimed for you. You were born for one purpose: to be an assassin,” He squeezed his son’s hand gently, “you may be the finest the Zoldyck’s have ever known.” Silva took his father’s words, raised his chin. </p><p>“I will be.” </p><p>“So you will.” He spoke, released him, moved his son’s hand between his own, and snapped his finger. Broken upward. Silva didn’t dare to flinch. </p><p>---</p><p>The birth of Silva’s first son revealed a head of black hair and a crack in the left side of his wife’s pelvis. In the years following Kikyo was cane-bound and, with the state of her bones, left unable to produce another child, a potential heir, the pain and failings of pregnancy too great. Silva, worried there would be no proper heir to give the import of the Zoldyck history, took his three year old son into the drafty chambers of his home. He showed Illumi the path of lineage which traced across the foundation of the estate. He took his child to that initial brick, eroded and gray, <em> Zoldyck </em> it read. </p><p>“This is from the first of us,” he said, pausing at the statement, surveying the wide dark eyes of his child, the willow hair across his cheeks. “Zoldycks are born with one purpose: to be assassins. You must be trained in the way of it.” He took Illumi’s arms in his palms “I do this not to hurt you son, but to make you a finer assassin” Zeno had explained it to him as he had done it to Silva:</p><p><em> A fracture, if reset correctly, shall offer greater strength and mobility. </em> The bones in his wrist squeezed to break. <em> In the learning to heal the body is ready for it, you heal faster for having healed before </em> The forearm, snapped cleanly into halves. <em> this was done to me by my father and his before him, back to our original kin</em> His shoulder, wrenched into unfamiliar angles <em> I do this not to hurt you son, but to make you a finer assassin. </em></p><p>Silva, sparing the words, placed his palm below his son’s elbow, and pressed it to break. </p><p>“Illumi,” he scolded “there is no reason to cry. You are a Zoldyck.”</p><p>---</p><p>Illumi Zoldyck, the first of his own brothers, the first of black hair, quickly became the default heir. His mother, too concerned with healing her womb and her spine from his birth five years ago, was unable to think of producing another, and so he was taught in the ways of his ancestors. He took a liking to it, the finality of his presence, in his mind he was the first black-haired Zoldyck heir, damn tradition, damn legend, he would be more powerful then some youngest from the old country with his brick and his rabbit’s blood. Illumi, to himself, represented a change in the formation of the Zoldyck dynasty. </p><p>“You are too eager,” his grandfather told him “You harm yourself by being overzealous. Power is not the pursuit of the Zoldycks. I see my father in you, but he is no great man to emulate, do not eschew the ways of our teachings.” Then he would smile, a certain fondness behind his stooped posture. “Would you like me to help with your training today? A good laugh is always best for removing pain you know.” </p><p>--- </p><p>Milluki Zoldyck, the second of his own brothers, the second of black hair, was born with Illumi’s fists clenched tightly in his mother’s bed sheets. Illumi watched, because his father told him to, because he was no longer sensitive to the sight and smell of blood, of wound, because he wanted to know if this wouldn’t be the brother to upstage him. A tiny head of black hair, red smeared atop the forehead and ears, wailing and screaming. Illumi let out a breath. </p><p>---</p><p>“Dad.” Illumi, ten, dared to intrude on Silva’s personal room. He hadn’t knocked, just strode into the blue-light walls as though he were invited. His father looked up from his perch, the dog beside him, with jaws large enough to fit Illumi’s trim shoulders between them with ease, growled at him. Silva cocked an eyebrow and ordered his pet </p><p>“Down.” He turned his eyes to Illumi, commanding him speak on the intrusion. </p><p>“Do you have any work for me, it’s been a week since my last job. They’ve been so easy lately.” His father narrowed his gaze, a grim disappreciation at Illumi’s comfort. </p><p>“No.” He moved to stand from his seat “Why don’t we train though, if you’re so assured you are prepared for anything that may come to you. I may have some examples to prove you wrong.” </p><p>---</p><p>Kikyo’s third pregnancy came with great relief to the family. She was doing well with this one, the large space between this and her last doing her good. Silva was ecstatic at the new opportunity for a proper heir, for one with the skill of Illumi and the true qualities of a Zoldyck, a potential puppet of darkness growing in his wife’s abdomen. He kissed her on the divide of her hairline, told her wonderful kindnesses at the news.</p><p>---</p><p>Killua Zoldyck, third of his own brothers, first of white hair, was born with great fanfare. His father allowed no time for first contact after the birth, brought him bloody-skinned to where his father and sons had waited outside. Zeno smiled in approval and brought a finger to trace at the blood clinging to the newborn’s curls of white. Beside him Illumi scowled, a cruel, cold resentment filling his sinuses with each intake of breath, </p><p>“A triumph.” Zeno called the child, “He’ll be a wonderful heir.” </p><p>---</p><p> Illumi refused to interact with his new, exploratory brother. Often Killua was with his father, training, but when he wasn’t he smiled at Illumi beneath a cotton-cloud of hair and asked </p><p>“Nii-chan will you play with me?” </p><p>“No.” Illumi said. “You’re a white-haired little brat with all of my future on your shoulders just because you happen to have the mark of the Zoldyck and I don’t.” he didn’t say. Kept his words minimal around his younger brother, ignored the words of lineage that sat on his tongue. Killua was no puppet of darkness, no portent of death. He was a child full of passion, of desires, of kindness. He was a disappointment and Illumi hated him for it. </p><p>---</p><p>“We musn’t let him treat Killua like that.” Zeno told his son. “Illumi will be dangerous to the family if he doesn’t find his place.” </p><p>“He wants to be the heir.” Silva spoke blandly, bringing a cup to his lips. </p><p>“He isn’t.” </p><p>“He knows.”</p><p>“But, to keep him in line, you should keep him close to it.” </p><p>---</p><p>Illumi was brought into his father’s room, invited, summoned, and sat before his father in the unnatural light. </p><p>“You will train Killua.” His father told him “Alongside me. The heir needs the finest teachers. You were exemplary in your training.” </p><p>“Were.”</p><p>“Killua is the heir son, but you shall shape him, make him into the finest of the Zoldycks.”</p><p>Illumi sat with the news, how it stirred the resentment in his stomach. </p><p>“This is not a request Illumi.”</p><p>---</p><p>“Killua” Illumi says “You were born with one purpose” he flickers to life the tip of a cattle prod “to be an assassin”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My roommate fully believed I was having a stroke and then cried over a horse that likes donuts while I was writing this if that tells you anything about my life.</p><p>Anyway! Hmu on Twitter @poetforprofit leave a comment if ur into this, thanks!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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